


In which Mr Lascelles fails to allow that friendships might have motivations other than lust, greed, or wrath

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Regency, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 08:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4659753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intrigue at Mr Norrell's house at Hanover-square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Mr Lascelles fails to allow that friendships might have motivations other than lust, greed, or wrath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syberiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberiad/gifts).



> Drawlight is secretly Jewish, for reasons.

The library at Mr Norrell's house in Hanover-square was as crowded as Mr Norrell ever allowed it to become, even when that crowd consisted of the group of people everyone agreed were his closest friends. To have four people milling about at arm's reach of his precious volumes might have been enough to drive him to distraction had not one of those people been Childermass, who could be trusted to watch visitors, and another Jonathan Strange, whose conversation was so engrossing that Mr Norrell soon forgot all about grubby fingers (though Mr Strange's were always dotted with ink) and disagreeable society (though Mr Strange endeavoured, as usual, to quarrel with him).

Mr Strange paused in his analysis of Martin Pale's lyricism to search for a word – presumably it was some more polite term for doggerel – so Henry Lascelles said, "I do not see why you don't have these books re-bound, Mr Norrell." The object of Lascelles's displeasure was a set of ragged volumes that dared to sit idly on their marked and indexed shelf next to the chaise-lounge he had chosen to seat himself on. "I expect the creation of limited new editions would be a wonderful opportunity to correct some factual errors in the original, as well as to see your name, as editor, printed next to that of an Aureate."

"Mr Lascelles, those are most insignificant books on botanical magic. There is no glory to be gained that would be worth letting the general public have access to them. Indeed, I should never attach my name to them!"

"In the volume you lent me, sir," interjected Strange, "Dr Pale spoke highly of infusions of various flowers and herbs."

"Indeed, Mr Strange! A distinction must be made between those uses of plants which are purely magical and which are medicinal in nature. Dr Pale was not always clear on the subject. In Huggins's analysis of his work with rosemary..." And so Mr Norrell launched into a long and complicated speech on Huggins' failures.

"Mr Childermass, you mustn't write to Lady W---- at that address!" cried Drawlight, who stood bent over the shoulder of Mr Norrell's man of business. "You are much more likely to reach her at General J----'s these days. The last I heard, the dear, beautiful lady had not left his household in days. Oh yes, she is certain to be there still."

Childermass was well aware of the delicate situation, but he had no intention of sharing his reasoning for sending the letter to the lady's husband instead of her lover, so he merely inclined his head with a hint of a smile – a parody of servility that amused him, even if it did nothing to faze Christopher Drawlight – and added the envelope on to the pile of Mr Norrell's outbound correspondence.

"I danced with the General at a masqued ball once." Drawlight sighed. "I'm afraid he mistook me for a Columbine, though my costume merely endeavoured to build upon the character of Pierrot. He was not best pleased to find otherwise, but, oh! It was a long time ago and we are friends again."

It had been four months earlier, to Childermass's best knowledge, at a ball in Bath, where Drawlight had very nearly been called out before the general's friends had intervened. But then he supposed time stretched out longer when one was young.

"I should like to shew you that outfit, Mr Childermass, so you may judge for yourself how I was wronged. It is ornate, to be sure, but anyone with even the slightest acquaintance with _commedia dell_ _'_ _arte_ would recognize the character."

There was a derisive snort from the chaise-lounge.

"Henry, you weren't there," said Drawlight, piqued. "I had the distinct row of buttons and the prequisite pallor."

Lascelles's reply was voiced under his breath into a 15th century manuscript he had picked up and was holding gingerly as if it might dirty his gloves. Childermass looked up from his papers to see Drawlight stiffen, and Lascelles's mouth twitch in something like a smile.

"Certainly, sir, but you cannot suggest that Dr Pale's use of rosemary was entirely unrelated to those traditions of so-called rural magicians and healers--"

"Charlatans, you mean, Mr Strange."

"—Beggars, peasants, and their wives, to be sure, Mr Norrell, but magicians nonetheless, whose practice mirrored that of the learned gentlemen of the day. Magic is not a philosophy, Mr Norrell – have you not said so yourself? It is based on quantifiable effects and rules."

Childermass bent his head over his paper and moved his pen as if checking items of a list, but kept Mr Norrell's friends in the corner of his eye. He saw Lascelles imperious nod towards the door. The two left the room together.

No words were exchanged, which was odd. Drawlight was not a man to leave without making a ceremony of his goodbyes. Childermass arranged and set aside the rest of his work and, after a moment, followed the two men out of the room, leaving Mr Norrell and Mr Strange to their pleasant occupation.

Childermass knew very well that Christopher Drawlight had been to every room in Mr Norrell's house aside from the study, including the pantry and Mr Norrell's bedroom (from which Childermass himself had sternly ejected him on the one occasion he had made it quite that far). Henry Lascelles, however, stuck to the library and the drawing room, the rest of the house presumably being too far below his notice. Sure enough, as Childermass made his way downstairs, the voices of the two gentlemen, used to carrying out conversations in crowded rooms, sounded clearly in the hallway. Lucas stood with a stack of towels in his arms, peering curiously in the direction of the drawing room door, which was ajar. He started when he saw Childermass on the stairs, and scuttled when Childermass nodded his head towards the back of the house. Lucas was a good man; all the more reason he be left innocent of some of Mr Norrell's business.

The house at Hanover-square was still new as houses go, not to mention newly re-decorated according to Mr Drawlight's aggressively current tastes. As such the drawing room and its door had neither the pale, ornate fashion of the last few decades or the heavy, age-worn grandeur of Hurtfew Abbey, but was elegant and simple in its broad lines, with knots of detail and decoration that left the visitor in no doubt of the owner's wealth and good taste. It was not in any sense a room that exemplified Mr Norrell's character. Like so much of the house - the dining room, the hallway, and the upstairs guest bedrooms – the room was Drawlight's. Childermass entered silently and stood by the door, as any good attentive servant might, with just a touch of magic to help him blend into the painted wood panelling. The gentlemen were discoursing animatedly and paid him no mind.

"I wonder if I should employ language you would understand," said Lascelles to Drawlight. From his mouth, it sounded like a threat.

"Why, Henry!" cried Drawlight. "You need not be cross with _me_. You know Iam no fairweather friend – not to _you_."

"Oh, I know you, Christopher Drawlight. You will ally yourself with any one and any thing. But even you must have some understanding of the essential point of allegiances – to safeguard one another against a common _enemy_. Much as I'd like you to stop mucking around with filthy vagabonds and gutter whores, that may be a lost cause – but if you insist on flirting with a servant who endeavours to poison Mr Norrell against me... Right in front of me, Mr Norrell and Jonathan Strange as if we were carousing together in a molly house! At that point one might wonder where exactly you stand."

Lascelles stood with his hands behind his back, inclined towards Drawlight, his tall frame looming over Drawlight's slight one. Drawlight did not flinch but lay a hand upon Lascelles's sleeve, beaming up at him as if given a compliment rather than a string of insults and threats. "My dear Henry! Such fire! You can set your mind at ease. I wish to harm no-one, least of all you. As to any loyalty of a _particular_ sort... Well, you never made any such claim upon me before." Drawlight smiled up at Henry Lascelles, his beautiful eyes heavy-lidded, and shrugged in a fluid motion.

Lascelles pulled Drawlight up by his lapels. "You _are_ lucky you're pretty," he murmured. "Should you ever turn ugly, I would not be half so forgiving."

Mr Lascelles seemed very close to embracing Mr Drawlight. As Childermass had no wish to witness such intimacies, he pushed on the drawing room door, closing it behind him. At the sound, Lascelles dropped Drawlight and jumped back as if stung, a display which brought joy to Childermass's heart. Mr Drawlight merely straightened his lapels.

"Well, sirs," said Childermass, "I hope you haven't been wasting your time worrying about _my_ small influence over Mr Norrell. I suppose hissing like a pair of tom-cats at Jonathan Strange must lose its novelty after a while."

The look of utter hatred that flashed on Lascelles's face soon disappeared behind a mask of indifference, and he laughed. "Do you see, Christopher? This piece of Yorkshire scum is of no value to any one, and knows it. He is ugly as sin, besides, and I don't wish to look upon him any more. Come, let us say good afternoon to Mr Norrell and Mr Strange. We can dine at my house tonight. I will send for some raspberries – I believe they are your favourite?"

"You mean strawberries, Henry," said Drawlight, and followed Lascelles out, but not before throwing an intrigued, lingering gaze at Childermass.

-

"I really did make a most charming Pierrot, if I say so myself," said Drawlight to Childermass the following morning. Childermass had been brushing Brewer when the young man had picked his way gingerly through the haystacks and equipment at Mr Norrell's stable. From there, he had followed Childermass to the kitchen, where the cook had been so distracted by having a fine gentleman in her domain that she had burned Mr Norrell's toast and had been obliged to make another. Drawlight was full of apologies, until Childermass left to sort through Mr Norrell's cards, at which point Drawlight had been compelled to leave the cook to her troubles in order to follow him into the hallway.

"Not that I wouldn't have made a decent Columbine – at least as decent as that of Miss J----'s." Drawlight sighed. "I do envy women sometimes. Their fashions have a wealth of variety that simply wouldn't do for a gentleman. Do you like them, Mr Childermass? Women, that is? I find them charming, to be sure, but--"

"All right, sir, you've made your point," said Childermass, not a little amused, and set down the cards of Mr Norrell's visitors.

"Well, then!" said Drawlight happily.

-

Mr Norrell would breakfast until eleven, after which Childermass's presence would be expected at the library. It was coming to ten as Childermass led Drawlight down familiar hallways and up to his bedroom on the third floor. A skylight opened up into a grey late summer sky. The narrow bed and sheets were of a good quality, as was the desk propped under the skylight with a candle and writing implements upon it. A battered oakwood chest completed the room's furnishing. Drawlight declared it charming, sat on the bed, and began a story about the Duke of F----'s eldest daughter's mania for flower arrangement. Childermass climbed in after him and kissed him quiet.

It worked as few other things ever have to stop the flow of Drawlight's conversation. A light, experimental press of mouth on mouth had left him shivering and silent. Childermass might have thought he'd scared the lad, had there not also been a small smile of anticipation playing on his lips. So he kissed him again.

Drawlight's skin was not powdered this morning, though his hair smelled of some foreign substance. He answered Childermass's attentions lightly, almost shyly, but whether this was a pretense for his benefit or for Drawlight's own amusement, Childermass could not tell.

He brought his hand up to caress that smooth cheek, while his other found its way to Drawlight's waist, stiff with three layers of clothing. He pushed, and Drawlight fell back on the cot, pulling him down with him.

"I'll sully your fine attire, sir," warned Childermass. Drawlight made an unhappy little sound, but wrapped his legs around Childermass's waist. Presumably, then, a little dirt was an acceptable price, and in any case the brush would be available to be utilized at a moment's notice. That must have been an upside of tupping servants, Childermass mused: no need to ask one's partner's valet to help one dress afterwards.

He opened Drawlight's jacket and found himself wanting to yank the fine, embroidered waistcoast underneath, to scatter buttons across the floor. He resisted. Drawlight's hands found Childermass's own waistcoat and undid the long row of buttons with deft fingers. Soon they were tugging at each other's shirts, mouths moving together, hips grinding together.

That Drawlight was enjoying the proceedings was not in any doubt. He kept his mouth shut, but communicated his approval with eager hands. The way he bent and bit his lip at Childermass's touch did more to provoke an answering heat than any of his fine flirtation had. Like this, his black hair ruffled and his cheeks pink behind the rouge, Christopher Drawlight looked nothing short of delectable.

It was a dangerous strain of thought, no less so than the hot, heavy desire beginning to build up in Childermass's loins. He reminded himself that restraint was in order. He was not here to undo this lad for his own pleasure, despite the friendly pretense both of them had put up. Oh, he would have, had circumstances been as simple as they seemed. He would toss aside all that silk and mark that pretty neck with his teeth, and find out just how alike they were once class and finery had been stripped off. He found he would very much like to take Drawlight apart like a trick box and see him open up, messy and outdone. He might yet do just that, but first things first – even if the lad was now undoing Childermass's trousers, and then pushing him on his side... He caught Drawlight's arms and brought him back up before he could duck all the way down.

"There's no hurry, is there, sir?" he asked and kissed him again, hard. Drawlight whimpered against his mouth. "Take the rest of it off," Childermass adviced, and Drawlight sat up to pull off his shirt and slip out of his breeches. He hesitated at his smallclothes. "Shall I help you, sir?" asked Childermass, tugging at the ties of Drawlight's cotton drawers.

Drawlight waved him off. He still seemed flushed and his interest at these close quarters could not be denied, but he had lifted one leg as if to hide his crotch. "Mr Childermass, I hope you are a man of discretion... It was medical, you see, a purely medical procedure, and hardly a thing to interest any one." He attempted a light laugh.

"You can trust me," said Childermass. He placed another kiss at Drawlight's ear, then his neck, and felt him shiver again. It was, of course, a lie, but in truth Drawlight had nothing to lose. "Mr 'Christopher' Drawlight. When you first shewed interest in Mr Norrell, I looked into your past. What you mean to hide is no news to me, nor does it make the slightest difference."

Drawlight let go a breath and nodded, but his brow remained knitted. "Mr Norrell knows, then?"

"I do not tell Mr Norrell everything."

What kind of power did Lascelles have over Drawlight? Assuming Lascelles had put him up to this, how little had Drawlight actually wanted to do this? Had Drawlight been any other kind of man, Childermass might have hesitated. As it was... "May I?" He slipped onto the floor and pulled down Drawlight's last piece of clothing apart from his fine silk socks. Drawlight made no objection, lifting his hips to let the drawers slide down.

Childermass nodded to himself; he had been right. He had never seen a circumcised member up close before, and could not imagine how delicate one might be compared to the kind he was used to, so he took the tip between his lips with exquisite care. Drawlight cried out, then stuffed his hand into his mouth.

Childermass let the member pop out of his mouth and held it in his palm, instead, lightly massaging the length. "You must tell me if I'm hurting you, sir."

"No, you... Oh. Mr Childermass. Henry never... Hardly ever..." Childermass took this as permission to softly mouth the length of Drawlight's erection. Drawlight, once more lost for words, fell back on his hands, thrusting up into his mouth in evident enjoyment.

The sky above was blanketed with white clouds and the morning light made Drawlight look pale as a ghost as he undulated on the simple bed. Childermass's lust was growing in insistence, like a wolf under his skin ready to bounce, but he held back – suckled and caressed until Drawlight was very nearly undone.

"Mr Childermass, please," cried Drawlight, apparently having forgotten his determination to remain cautious and quiet. "Come, I will not break. I am more robust than I look – you need not – oh, Mr Childermass, you are the very picture of – oh, do not tease me so! I beg you! Fuck me, fuck me. Please."

"As you wish, sir." Childermass shrugged off his open waistcoat, kicked off his breeches, climbed up between Drawlight's pale thighs, and spat on his hand. He found the lad eager and permissive. His hole opened up between Childermass's fingers, and so he did not have long to wait. Another application of spit, and he sheathed himself inside Drawlight.

At first the lad was still and shivering, so Childermass moved slowly, until Drawlight grabbed the side of the cot and hooked his ankles behind Childermass's back, shoving his hips up against him.

So they rocked. Childermass fell forward on his hands and rammed into the lad squirming under him, his own hair in his eyes, moist with sweat. The cot squeaked and its legs scratched against the wooden floor.

Childermass leaned down to kiss Drawlight's open mouth as he picked up his pace. Delectable was right, he mused, less like porcelain now and more like pink flesh and need, coming apart under his cock. A hint of floral perfume still tickled his nose, but there was nothing artificial about the wet mouth under his, or the way Drawlight grasped at his shoulders, hanging on like drowning man.

What must he look like to the gentleman? Childermass mused. 'Fiercely burning eyes and wild, romantic looks,' had been Drawlight's description of him once, or so he'd heard. He thought himself more a workhorse than a than a price stallion, but beauty was not, he'd found, the only thing to recommend one to a lover... He grunted as thought threatened to fade into the pleasure of Drawlight's body, the lad's abandon only stoking Childermass's until all cunning fizzled into the blind, eternal moment.

He was dimly aware that Drawlight had taken himself into hand, so he sat up and gathered Drawlight's knees under his arms to better thrust into him. Indeed only a moment later Drawlight arched and spilled all over his own belly. Satisfied of having done his part, Childermass allowed himself to speed up and finish, as well.

There is a peace that comes only between the legs of a lover, and Childermass allowed it to overtake him, then. He fell on his elbows over Drawlight, gasping, sated, and for the moment beyond aches, pains, or concerns – but only for a moment. Drawlight held his head in the crook of his shoulder and kissed his hair, as if they really were lovers, and this wasn't a game. Perhaps for that one moment, they both wished it didn't have to be.

Childermass sighed and recollected himself. "Well then, sir," he said with a wry expression, very nearly like a smile. "I wonder if there's something you meant to ask me."

Drawlight's flushed face, mere inches from his, broke into a brilliant smile. "Oh, a million things," he said. "In a moment I mean to trouble you for a handkerchief. Mine is across the room on the floor, in my jacket pocket." He looked around in some distress to see his clothes crumpled across the floor – well-swept though it may have been.

"I believe I could offer you as much," said Childermass, "but would that satisfy Mr Lascelles?"

Drawlight made a very pretty _moue_. "Must you say such things, at such a moment as this? What secrets have I ever kept? Some would say I am overgenerous with my facts."

"Aye, and your lies, too," said Childermass, but there was no reprimand in his tone. He sat up and reached into his chest for a fresh handkerchief. "Shall you be in trouble, sir, if you bring him nothing?"

Drawlight flinched and sat up, curling into himself once again as he had when attempting to hide his circumcision. The movement seemed instinctive. Childermass did not like to see it. He handed him the handkerchief silently and got to re-fastening his own breeches.

Drawlight laughed, a bright and brittle sound. "Henry is all bark and no bite," he said. "I will come up with something. Mr Childermass, don't think that I... that is... Henry and I discussed things last night at length and all is well between us. He is merely unsure how he stands with Mr Norrell now that Mr Strange is occupying so much of his time. No friend as true as he has been likes to be so completely forgotten." Drawlight's eloquence seemed to be returning to him as he gathered more clothes back about his person. "I would imagine _you_ feel much the same, Mr Childermass! All these years you have been Mr Norrell's right hand man. To tell you the truth, I am baffled by Mr Norrell's fascination, especially since the gentlemen never meet but they argue."

"Love is a funny thing," said Childermass as he pulled on the first of his boots.

Drawlight laughed his bright laugh, then fell silent for a moment, then sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is." After another moment's silence, he asked. "I wonder, do they...?" He cast Childermass a querying look.

"Is that what Henry Lascelles wanted to know?"

Drawlight shrugged and smiled. " _I_ never thought so. Mr Norrell does not seem interested in such things. Henry is – _we_ are – merely endeavouring to understand."

"Tell him what you like," said Childermass, stood up, and turned his back to don his coat. "I'll back you up, to him at least. It isn't as if the truth really matters, is it? I dare say you are better placed to know what answer will make Mr Lascelles happy."

"Ever loyal, I see! There is no need for such discretion, I am sure, since we are all--"

"—Friends," Childermass finished.

"Friends," said Drawlight. "Are you sure I couldn't persuade you to...? No, of course not. No doubt you are right." He sighed and buttoned up his own waistcoat. "I don't suppose you have a brush handy, Mr Childermass?"

They kissed one more time against the door to Childermass's room. It was that, more than any thing else that had passed between them, that moved Childermass's jaded heart. Being a player in a game was easy; it was safe, to an extent, and at the very least it had the comfort of familiarity. It did not signify what either of them might want or need when night came and brought along its bad dreams. And it would not do to care too much, or one would soon find oneself the chump, played out and stripped bare. Childermass knew this very well, and he suspected Drawlight did too, for all the trouble he had got himself into in his young life.

Drawlight left the house through the kitchen door, taking with him two rolls of fresh-baked bread. It was nearly time to meet Mr Norrell in the library.


End file.
